


There’s a Long Journey Through the Night, Back Into the Light

by KipRussel



Series: faden in (or: how i learned to cry about dylan a lot) [1]
Category: Alan Wake (Video Game), Control (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Thomas Zane (mentioned), a little prosey and abstract bc its a dream, alan has accidentally become that adult that refers to people younger than him as 'kid', alan is looking for his way out of the dark place and is curious why dylan seems strangely familiar, bc wooooooooo lore questions!, both these games ended with me going 'hey i wish this guy would wake up' so behold, but theyre piecing it together and finding things relatable in their vague conversation, dylan has a hard time deciding whether he likes casper darling or not, dylans a smidge confused and alan's 10 years into it, pretty vague on alan's current circumstance, pretty vague on the rules of how dylan's current state and the dark place work, pretty vague on what's up with zane, sometimes dreamscapes are places where you sort through your emotions and struggles u kno, the two guys meet in a dreamscape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28157796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KipRussel/pseuds/KipRussel
Summary: At first, he thinks he hears the ocean— the crash of the water against a beach, a drumroll down the edges of the earth— but as it becomes clearer in his mind, the water is gentle, lapping quietly, until he can feel the cool of it against his toes.He looks down at the murky-green lake water trying to reach up onto the dry land and never quite making it. It stirs the silt and sand up in each attempted wave, before dragging it all back into the deeper waters. Dylan stares out toward the far horizon, trying to find the other shore, but it’s far too dark and foggy for him to make out any clear shapes or sights. The crashing waves get louder as he stands at full height again, and watches a beam of light sweep across the beach, illuminating a long spit of sand, jutted with sharp rocks, leading up to a coastline of steep cliffs.A beach. An ocean.A lighthouse.Nowhere to go but up.
Relationships: Alan Wake & Dylan Faden
Series: faden in (or: how i learned to cry about dylan a lot) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089236
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	There’s a Long Journey Through the Night, Back Into the Light

_Wake up, wake up._

Dylan isn’t sure how long he’s been dreaming. 

He thinks he’s been dreaming, anyway. It feels like dreaming. Sometimes it feels real. But… different. Dream-real.

He comes out of the darkness and fog faintly aware of the sensation of sand under his bare feet. 

At first, he thinks he hears the ocean— the crash of the water against a beach, a drumroll down the edges of the earth— but as it becomes clearer in his mind, the water is gentle, lapping quietly, until he can feel the cool of it against his toes. 

He looks down at the murky-green lake water trying to reach up onto the dry land and never quite making it. It stirs the silt and sand up in each attempted wave, before dragging it all back into the deeper waters. Dylan stares out toward the far horizon, trying to find the other shore, but it’s far too dark and foggy for him to make out any clear shapes or sights. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he feels relief. He can’t remember why. But he likes how quiet it is here. Just the sound of the water, of trees, of somewhere. A forest, swaying gently in the night, all muted greens and blues and greys.

The edge of his sweats begin to stick to his ankles, and he shuffles back further, trying to escape the water, heels mounding up sand until they thump against something solid and cold. He twists around, feet forming more patterns in the sand, and finds a message in a bottle rolling loosely on the ground behind him. He eyes it with a caution and a curiosity, unsure of how it got here— though he supposes, with a foggy sense of irony, that a message in a bottle on the beach makes more sense than his own materialization here. 

Dylan bends down and scoops up the bottle, fingers pressing gently against the frigid glass. The crashing waves get louder as he leans down. He stands at full height again, and watches a beam of light sweep across the beach, illuminating a long spit of sand, jutted with sharp rocks, leading up to a coastline of steep cliffs.

A beach.

He holds the bottle tighter and turns to look behind him again.

An ocean.

A lighthouse.

Nowhere to go but up.

He climbs the rocky steps up to the lighthouse door, careful to cradle the bottle close to his chest, in fear of it slipping from his grip and tumbling onto the rocks, shattering, message fluttering away in the wind. He guards it as he pokes his head into the lighthouse, finding a spiraling metal staircase headed up, up, up. The waves outside churn and crash against the rocks with a practiced bravado, and he finds some comfort in their sound, head feeling equal parts clear and foggy. 

He focuses on the sounds as he climbs each step. It winds narrower and narrower, until he finally reaches the top: a ladder and a hatch, perfectly square in the ceiling. He falters for a moment, then carefully begins the climb, still holding the bottle in one hand like precious cargo, balancing between his hand and the metal at each rung.

With one good push, he flings the hatch open, climbing up and out into the grass and mud. _Grass and mud?_ It sticks to his sweats and sleeves as he stands, still damp, as he once again takes note of where he is.

A small island lies ahead of him, situated in the middle of a dark, looming lake. The darkness is permeating, thick, and unsettling. It sticks to Dylan’s bones like the mud sticks to his clothes. It’s chilling and makes his stomach churn. A haunting, icy sickness that feels all too foreign and all too familiar. He pulls the bottle close again, like an anchor keeping him safe where he stands.

The signpost above the pathway welcomes him in the dark. _Bird Leg Cabin._ Beyond it, a wooden cabin sits, a singular light on in the upper window.

The light is like a beacon of hope. A magnet. A promise. He sets out for the front door and finds it unlocked. The old wooden stairs inside creak with every step he takes, announcing his arrival to the dark, musty cabin. He feels it's listening, though no one seems to be there. The only sign of life is the soft light spilling under the door in the landing at the top of the stairs.

Dylan pauses outside of it, listening. Thinking. Trying to sort his lonely, dream-hazed thoughts.

He can hear someone behind the door, talking softly. A singular voice. In the only lit room in the whole place.

It feels… like a good choice. Another anchor of sorts.

A respite, perhaps. Not safety. But rest.

He steps quietly toward it, turning the knob completely before slowly pushing the door open in absolute silence. The world behind him fades into gentle darkness. A stark contrast to the murky, thick darkness hanging in this new room, tinted blacks and blues. The door shuts behind him.

The room creaks like an underbelly of an old ship, wood heaving and sighing as the water stirs past the windows. An audience of taxidermied animals peers down past the desk and the typewriter to the form slumped on the floor. He’s curled into himself, lying on the ground, jacket forming a cocoon, muttering and twitching in his sleep. The man clutches at his head, fingers blindly shooting through his long hair, scrabbling for purchase in a grounding thought. Papers are discarded and scattered all around him.

Dylan feels a haunting ache in his chest at the sight.

He pads across the room, stopping a few feet from the man, dropping into a crouch.

“ _Too dark,_ ” the man mumbles between sharp breaths, rocking himself. “ _Can’t— can’t find my way…_ ”

Dylan feels like he’s intruding. Yet… he knows how this feels. To list restlessly, sleeplessly, on the edge of consciousness and dreaming. Someone needs to wake the man up.

He reaches forward and sets a hand on his shoulder.

* * *

Everything is static and frantic breaths for Alan. Nightmares scratch and claw at his mind, and he can no longer tell if he fights or feeds them. The panic in his chest tightens.

Something touches his shoulder.

It feels like being ripped out of the water, back into air, into oxygen, life. He can breathe.

Alan gasps, flipping over to see what touched him.

 _Who_ touched him.

“No!” Alan shouts instinctively, pushing himself backwards. The other person scurries back as well— a man he doesn’t recognize.

Alan breathes, and blinks, until he feels fully united with himself again. He takes mental stock: No, he doesn’t know this man. He does know this room.

It’s been a long while since he’s been in this room ( _Has it? How does time work down here? How long has it been? How could I tell? My memory..._ ) He finds himself thinking differently, narrating, like how his inner voice sometimes shifts after reading or writing for hours on end. _How long has it been?_

_Who is that?_

“Who are you?” Alan asks, voice raw. He swallows, gathering himself up, trying to pull every loose strand of himself, every thought, back into its place.

“Who are _you?_ ” the man counters.

Alan scrunches his face up.

What a very good question.

_Who am I?_

“I’m a writer,” he says finally, sure of that. “My name is Alan Wake.” _Aha, there it is._

“Oh,” the man replies. “You sound familiar.” He picks nervously at the edge of his sleeve. Alan waits for more of an answer, but gets none, so he takes the man in for a moment. 

He’s positive he doesn’t know him. Not even the faintest hint of familiarity is ringing a bell in his mind. Grey sweats, grey sweater, no shoes. _Is he one of Hartman’s unfortunate victims?_

“Who are you?” Alan asks again.

“Dylan.”

“I don’t… I don’t think I know you. I don’t know a Dylan. Who— where…” Alan presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to think, trying to grasp at the remaining, slipping pieces of lucidity. 

He’s awake. He’s in a room he knows. He hasn’t been here in a long time. He doesn’t recognize this man. He really, truly doesn’t. Not in person. Not as a character. So…

“How are you here?” Alan asks. Dylan tilts his head in confusion.

“I walked here. From the lighthouse. To the cabin on the island.”

 _Cabin? Lighthouse?_ Alan can feel the old, dusty connections in his mind flickering back to life.

“Bird Leg is a weird name for a cabin,” Dylan mumbles, twisting the bottle in his hands. Alan looks up at him suddenly, and it makes Dylan straighten to attention. Alan climbs to his feet, walking toward him, slowing as he gets close. Dylan’s eyes flit back and forth, searching Alan nervously.

“I don’t think you’re a figment,” Alan says, reaching out and putting a hand on Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan follows his hand, then looks back to him, confused. “But… figments have seemed real in the past…”

“I’m… just visiting,” Dylan answers. “I… it… I’m… not sure…” he trails, losing his train of thought in the fog.

Alan gives Dylan a gentle shake, and he looks back up to meet his eyes.

“I’m just visiting,” Dylan says again. “This is normal for me. I’m dreaming. Or… you’re dreaming. At least… I _think_ we’re dreaming.”

Through the murky fog in Alan’s mind, one thought remains clear: leave. Get out. A distant hope. Like a sliver of light through a door, cutting into the dark, promising an exit, an escape. Could this be it, if this man is real? Did he write this?

Did the lake claim another?

“I think this is for you,” Dylan says tentatively, holding out the bottle. “Since this is your dream.”

Alan eyes it warily, before assessing him again. Part of him flares in paranoia— this is new, which means it’s dangerous. Don’t take it. Be careful. Protect yourself. But another part of him is screaming in excitement— a note? A new person? A way out? _Waking up?_

“It’s not my dream,” Alan says finally, punctuating it with a suspicious glare, taking the bottle from the man. He turns away to open it, pulling out the soggy cork with a resounding _pop_. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dylan standing on his toes, trying to lean forward subtly and glance at the message. He’s still not sure whether he’s some sort of spy, or force, or self-sabotage, so Alan hunches forward as he unrolls the paper. 

At the bottom are two elegant initials he’s sure he could never forget. (He hopes. He really hopes.)

_T.Z._

“Zane…” Alan mumbles, some of the fog lifting, the light glimmering hopefully in his mind. He searches the note anxiously, eagerly, scanning it from top to bottom.

_ For he did not know, that beyond the lake he called home, _

_ There lied a deeper, and darker ocean green. _

_ Where waves are both wilder and more serene. _

_ To its ports I've been, _

_ To its ports I've been. _

_That’s all? That’s it?_ He scans the note again, looking for something, anything. _I know that. I know this!_ Alan thinks, frustration bubbling up in his chest. His grip tightens dangerously around the bottle. The glass threatens to shatter, quivering in his hand.

 _Do you understand?_ Zane’s old question echoes in his mind.

 _No,_ he thinks again. _What help is this? Where are you, Zane? What’s the point? Why won’t you help?_

“What does it say?” Dylan asks gingerly, and Alan snaps back to attention, anger dissipating. He forgot the other man was even here.

“Nothing,” he answers, and it comes out quiet and strained. “Nothing,” he tries again, voice evening out.

“Oh.” Dylan answers. “I’m sorry.” He says it with such… _hurt_. Like it’s his fault, somehow.

“Thank you. For bringing it,” Alan adds quickly. “For coming here. However it is you got here.” Dylan sort of lightens at that, shrugging slightly.

“I just… go wherever I end up. Whatever the dream becomes.”

“Why? How?” Alan is fishing, looking for answers when he hardly has any idea of up and down. If Dylan has an answer, he betrays nothing, staring back. Alan holds the stare, waiting for an answer, _willing_ one. Dylan’s eyes flick back to the letter hanging loose in the man’s hand.

“You said Zane. T.Z.? Like… Thomas Zane? The poet?”

Alan furrows his brow, searching Dylan’s face. _The Poet. Of course he’s The Poet. How do_ **_you_** _know he’s The Poet? Who are you?_ **_Do_** _I know you?_

“My sister likes his poems,” he continues, voice still fragile and careful— a direct opposition to his defensive posture. 

It strikes Alan, very suddenly, as he stands there scrutinizing this guest (or intruder?) just how _young_ he seems, underneath it all. The defensiveness, the glaring, careful eyes, the desperate, wild-animal attempt to appear bigger and stronger and prepared to fight— like he probably is— cannot hide the fear and simple wonder underneath it all. It’s almost like looking in a mirror. Quite uncomfortably. Alan can see some of his younger self in Dylan’s face.

His younger self.

How long has it been? How does time flow in the murky waters? What is it like above them, at the surface?

How is Alice?

How is Barry?

_Who is this kid?_

“Your sister knows Zane?” Alan finally answers. Every moment spent talking to him is bringing things into a clearer view. The ever-present desire of escape rings ever-clearer in Alan’s mind. “Look, kid, I think— I think maybe I do know you. You seem familiar. Not like we’ve met, but like I’ve heard of you.”

“I’m not a kid,” Dylan answers, almost laughing. The humor is killed by the realization that he’s not sure how old he even is, so he settles instead to keep glaring at Alan.

“Sorry, whatever, look— I’m glad you brought me this, again,” he holds the bottle and note aloft briefly. “But this is not a place to stay. It’s not safe here. You said you’re just visiting— can you get back out? You’re not trapped, are you?” _Can you come back after? Can you take me with you?_

Dylan’s expression softens at the concern.

“Yeah, I’m just visiting. I can leave, I think. I’ll just… I’ll just… go to another dream.” The hurt looks returns as he picks at his sweater sleeves, and it makes Alan wince. “Do you want me to leave?” _It feels safe here. There’s light here. Don’t make me leave yet._

“No,” Alan clarifies quickly. “I just. The darkness here… I don’t want you to get trapped.”

 _I’m already trapped in all this,_ Dylan thinks. “I won’t be,” he says instead. “I think clearer here. I think talking to you helps.”

“I think so, too.” That familiarity again. The common thread. “Thank you. Again. For waking me up.”

“Mmm,” Dylan hums. “I… I understand. It’s… it’s easier right?”

Alan eyes him curiously.

“To fall back into the flow. Sink into it.” The water outside the windows swirls with a tangible darkness. “To just rest in it, even though you don’t want to. Needing to fight back. To stay out of the confusion.”

“...yeah.”

“I think clearer here,” Dylan says again.

The room creaks around them, ancient wood ebbing with water outside.

“Can you come back? Do you know how?” Alan asks, folding the note back up, pushing it back into the bottle.

“Maybe. I don’t… really know. I don’t know how it works. I can try. Can… can you come with me?” Alan pauses, staring at the floor.

_I really wish._

“No,” Alan answers. Dylan deflates, like the answer is just as disappointing for him, somehow. Alan turns back toward the desk, eyeing the typewriter. It sits in the exact center, framed by the wall around it. Waiting. Ready. “I have to write the escape. It has to follow the rules. A satisfying conclusion.”

“Oh. That makes sense,” Dylan says. Alan hopes it does. “Are you… a character? Or the author? Are you writing it?” Alan snorts at the irony.

“Yes. To both. Except I haven’t been writing.”

“Are you the main character? Or…” Dylan pauses, picking his words carefully. “...something else?”

Good question.

“I’m… not sure,” Alan says finally, looking up at him. “I’m still writing it. Why?”

“Because I’m— I feel—” Dylan stops. The pause hangs heavy as he digs his fingernails into his palms. “I don’t know. I just asked,” he says finally, anger flashing across his face. Alan holds his hands up as an apology before turning to set the bottle at the desk and take his seat again.

The typewriter looms in front of him. The blank page waits.

_What next?_

“I’m not much of a writer,” Dylan says, still rooted to the spot. “I don’t know how much I can help.”

“You being here has helped,” Alan reassures. “I don’t… I don’t get many visitors. Let alone good ones.”

“What’s your plan? How do you write it? Maybe it can help me.”

“Mmm. Maybe. Trying to… trying to write something satisfactory, that follows the old tropes, but avoids cliches or plot holes is…” Alan searches for the right word. “...hard,” he says finally, and feels like he’s just proven he _can’t_ write.

“The cliche is death out of time,” Dylan mumbles.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just… had to say that.”

“Oh. It sounds familiar,” Alan muses, turning to look back at him. “I don’t know. There’s a difference between knowing it all and writing it. The rules. When to use them and when to break them. Anti-heros, narrative devices, fourth wall breaks, killing your darlings.”

Dylan laughs suddenly, something bitter and sharp, and it makes Alan jump.

“I don’t know any of that. It sounds fun though.”

“Yeah. Well. Until writer’s block plagues you.”

“You should still try,” Dylan offers. “I don’t know how to help, but I can listen. If you want to talk about it. The ideas.” 

Alan nods slowly. 

“I like it here. Hiding here. I think you’re helping me. I want… I want to help too. It’s light here. It’s hidden here.”

He’s right. Alan can’t remember the last time he thought this clearly. Sometimes he just needs to start. Get the first word on the page. The first letter. And Dylan has certainly gotten him thinking. Brought him some inspiration.

“What did you say your last name was? I’m sure I know you somehow,” Alan asks, punctuating his question with the typewriter keys, starting his sentence carefully. He gets through four more before realizing Dylan hasn’t answered. “Dylan?”

Alan turns, and finds the room empty again.

The water in the windows casts shifting shapes on the floor, light filtering through the ocean and darkness. The room creaks.

_I’m just visiting._

Alan turns back slowly, wiggling his fingers over the typewriter. He looks at the bottle Dylan brought again, Zane’s poem poking out the top, rolled up. He scoops it up carefully, moving it to the top of the desk, where it’s clearly in view. An encouragement. A reminder. _Don’t forget. Keep going. Keep trying._

He re-reads what he’s written, and types another sentence.

There’s a long journey through the night, back into the light.


End file.
